


Makes My Circle Just

by fiendlikequeen



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Anal Sex, Carrying, Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Post-Canon, Rimming, Spanking, francis is one lucky fellow, unrealistic refractory period for a man in his thirties, vague handwaving towards a praise kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:20:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25003792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiendlikequeen/pseuds/fiendlikequeen
Summary: Francis receives a gift from a dear old friend, but James would rather he played with something else.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 32
Kudos: 129





	Makes My Circle Just

**Author's Note:**

> Post-canon fluff and smut. I want to be happy, y'all! 
> 
> Today's title rip-off is from John Donne. Once again using my MA for evil. Feels appropriate considering that the man was an absolute horndog and I am WELL within my rights to use and abuse him (he liked it rough anyway, it seems. Absolute baller).

“I’ve something for you, Frank,” says James Clark Ross, after a quiet supper. Francis begins to grumble, and Ross immediately holds up one hand. “None of that, now. Accept a gift from your dear old James, won’t you?”

Francis could never refuse Ross _anything._

The gift turns out to be a dip circle, a lovely thing made after Lloyd’s design. It is of excellent craftsmanship – Francis will not even venture a guess at its cost. But he is indebted to Ross so far beyond reckoning that what would fifteen or twenty pounds more signify?

“A reminder, old man,” says Ross, after Francis has admired the instrument and the servants have packed it away again for Francis to take home. “Not just of things past, and our good work.”

Francis watches Ross very carefully now. The other man is staring into the fire crackling away in the hearth, but turns and catches Francis in his gaze.

“If ever again you think of ranging, I want you to look at it,” he gestures to where the dip circle has been carried away in its velvet-lined box, “and remember that you swore to me that you would never again venture further than Banbridge.”

“I assure you that my exploring days are far astern,” says Francis.

Ross arches a brow. “I recall telling Ann something similar. Though I had a good enough reason to break that oath. And no regrets that I did.”

Francis allows himself a smile. Ross leans forward, puts a hand on Francis’s knee.

“But you must keep your vow, Francis. I could not bear to lose you twice.”

Francis thinks back to those years when all had assumed Ross dead along with his uncle. It had been an agony beyond thought, to imagine Ross lying frozen in the Arctic wastes. What had Ross endured, when he had thought Francis gone?

“Aye, James,” he swears. “You’ll not lose me.”

“Quite right – even if I have to entrap you here. Bolt our doors and manacle you to the hearth.”

Francis isn’t entirely sure the last part of that is a jest.

*****

The next morning, he takes it upon himself to attend to the instrument. He has little use for it now, of course. A shame, for it merely to sit on Francis’s mantel, a remembrance of an oath Francis is not likely to break. Such an instrument is better suited to the poles. Rather like Francis, in that way.

Still, he contents himself with tinkering away in his parlour instead of on the open pack. He has just set up the instrument and begun a delicate calibration when he has the distinct feeling that he is being watched. He looks up – quite reluctant to part from his work – and finds James is loitering at the door, leaning against the jamb.

He is wearing his dressing gown, as polished and poised even now as he ever is in full dress. One might think he had only just risen, except for the neatness of his hair and the bright gleam in his eyes. He clearly wishes to give the appearance of effortless grace; an inclination towards a certain _sprezzatura_ that Francis regrets to find charming.

“James,” Francis greets, perfunctorily.

“Sweetheart,” says James, far more affectionately, and in a tone that never fails to make Francis flush pink with restrained delight. He crosses into the parlour, draws up next to Francis’s chair. With a soft hum, he dips down to kiss Francis.

Francis suffers himself to be gently mauled only so long, and then draws back. Used to his peevishness when interrupted in his work, James leaves a lingering kiss on Francis’s cheek and straightens up. One hand remains on Francis’s shoulder as he gestures to the dip circle with the other.

“What’s this? Don’t often catch you playing with trifles, Francis.”

“Hardly a trifle. A gift from Sir James. Too generous of him.”

“Quite the instrument.”

Francis treats James to a withering glare. “Do you even know what it is?”

This glare is returned, rather more archly. “I may not be the natural philosopher you are, Francis, but I am not so _entirely_ stupid as you might believe. I can recognize a dip circle. I can even use it, if you would let me.”

“I don’t think you stupid, James, don’t say such-”

Clearly no offense has been taken, since James coils himself up on the carpet next to Francis’s chair. The hand that had been resting on Francis’s shoulder now palms Francis’s chest. He draws in close, beginning to mouth at Francis’s neck.

“Have you not said I have nimble fingers?” he asks. The other hand is resting upon Francis’s thigh. It creeps higher, teasing at Francis’s groin. “Do you not think I could operate this fine apparatus as well as I do your other, more…delicate devices?”

“Jesus _God,_ James.”

James is now playing with Francis’s swelling prick. Francis swats him away, lest the rascal think Francis the sort of man one may lead by toying with his cock.

But James is not so easily deterred. He kisses Francis’s neck, nibbles at the point of his jaw, noses his way into Francis’s hair and sighs.

“James. Enough. James!”

“James. _Jeames,_ ” the aforementioned man mocks. He is attempting to unbutton Francis’s flies. “Come, now, Francis – isn’t there something else to which you would enjoy attending? Something not made of cold brass? Something warmer, and-”

“You’ve made your meaning quite plain. I don’t want to-” Francis stops short of naming the act, weakly finishing instead: “I’m busy. Entertain yourself some way other than at the expense of my leisure.”

James scoffs. “Leisure,” he sneers. He rises, smooths down his dressing gown. There is a rather tell-tale bulge at the front of it. “I’m not sure you know the meaning of the word.”

When he takes a seat opposite Francis, something else occurs to the latter.

“Are…are you going to just sit there and _watch_ me?”

“I can be expected to sit in my own parlour from time to time,” says James. There is a rather fiendish twinkle in his eye. “Regardless of whether or not you are here.”

Francis levels a glare his way.

His work resumes, mostly uninterrupted. James sighs twice – no doubt, hoping that Francis will indulge him with his attention. Francis is just attending to the bolt that holds the needle in place when he hears another soft sigh. Looks up from the needle; looks up again.

James has his gown thrown open. He is not wearing a nightshirt, though he went to bed in one. One hand rests on his thigh. With the other he has palmed his prick and is stroking himself slowly. He is watching Francis as he does it.

It takes Francis a moment to be capable of speech. “Here, in the _parlour?”_ he asks, at last. “Have you no decency _at all?”_

“You are playing with your instrument, Francis. May I not with mine?”

Francis splutters, near apoplectic.

“Unless, of course, you find what I have something more compelling in my hand than you have in yours. I know your fondness for the implement I am holding.”

For a moment, Francis says nothing. Then he composes himself and goes on.

“If you are incapable of behaving,” says Francis, as severely as he can manage, “I shall remove you until such time as you can conduct yourself properly.”

“Oh, shall you?”

“Yes,” says Francis. He stands. Straightens his waistcoat. “I shall.”

James’s gaze has followed him. His chin is tilted up. A dare.

Then James lets his mouth fall open, bats his dark lashes, and looses an obscene sound far too filthy even to be a moan.

Francis is on him in a flash. He seizes James by the waist and hauls him out of his chair. He gives the man no chance to squirm as he gets his shoulder under his hip. James does nothing but give a low huff of surprise, followed by a quiet yelp as Francis straightens up.

He slings James over his back, a little less easily than he expected. James is not the piteous, wasted thing he was in the dying days of their expedition. He is at his prime again – magnificent, but quite heavy.

“I say, Francis,” says James. He manages to sound rather dignified, though his arse is in the air and his stiff cock pressing against Francis’s chest. “Rather unsporting of you, my dear chap. I did not think you capable of – oh, I do _say_!”

He breaks off as Francis delivers a sharp slap to his arse.

“I am,” says Francis, grunting under James’s considerable weight, “a man of my word, Fitzjames. If I say you shall be removed, then by God you _shall._ ”

“Good Christ,” says James, almost believable. “What _do_ you intend to do with me, you brute?”

Francis goes careening out of the parlour – bumps up against the doorjamb on the way out, staggers toward the stairs. He lurches up them one by one. He is quite lucky that James is making no attempt to get away. Should the other man struggle, he would most likely be in danger of sending the two of them crashing back down the stairs.

As it is, James seems perfectly content to be carried off, though he lamely pretends otherwise.

“Francis, what on Earth – oh, dear God, you rogue, you don’t seriously intend to-” he protests, as Francis kicks open the door to his bedroom.

“Quiet,” barks Francis. Slaps James’s arse again for good measure.

Francis tosses James onto the bed. He lands with a bounce, then makes a rather dismal show of attempting to get away. They tussle a moment on the bed, and fortuitously James loses his dressing gown in the scuffle.

Francis has pushed James back, with little difficulty; James leans back on the heels of his hands, his whole frame bared for Francis’s admiration. His legs are spread, his prick at full attention. He is hiding his eagerness very poorly – not that Francis has much latitude to deride him, given the similar situation currently brewing in Francis’s own trousers.

“Better than a dip circle, eh?” asks James, gesturing to himself when Francis’s stare catapults itself into firmly lascivious territory.

Francis smacks his thigh, admiring both the red imprint it leaves and the bitten-back groan it earns him. “Impudent creature.”

James’s eyes are impossibly wide. His mouth hangs open. Francis seizes him by the hair and turns him over, pressing him onto his belly on the bed.

“Maddening, troublesome thing,” he snaps. His vitriol sounds nearly genuine. “I’ll teach you to meddle-”

James has gone very pliant, surrendering entirely to Francis’s grip. “How shall you do so, Captain Crozier?”

“If you are determined to _act_ like a wanton ship’s boy, you’ll be punished accordingly.”

“Oh, _oh.”_

When the first slap comes, James bucks and cries out. Francis’s palm stings and there is already a pink print on one of James’s arse cheeks. “Do you think you deserve this punishment, boy?”

“I do,” whispers James. “I do. Oh, more, please, sir-”

“Wicked hussy,” Francis admonishes him. He mirrors his first strike on the other cheek, pleased with the symmetry of it. “What shall I do to mend your ways?”

Francis answers his own question with another slap. “Such brazen, obscene behaviour. Parading about in an indecent state-”

James cries out – sheer delight – when Francis strikes him again. “Ah!”

“Showing off your stiff cock in the _fucking_ parlour, no shame at all-”

“Oh, oh yes-”

“Playing with yourself, where anyone might see-”

“Yes, harder, sir, harder _please_ -”

“Hoping to debauch your captain, no doubt.”

“Oh, yes,” pants James. He mewls at the next strike. “Yes, I would, I am _mad_ for him-”

“And what, pray tell,” asks Francis, delivering another slap, “would you do to him?”

“Anything,” says James, with a special sort of zeal that makes Francis want to fall upon him and kiss him hard. Francis wallops his arse instead, gets a whine. “Anything at all. I am so wicked, I should do such things-”

“Naughty boy,” says Francis. Another slap, before he digs his fingers into the meat of James’s buttock. James is writhing against the bed. Francis isn’t much better – achingly hard and likely staining his drawers. “What things?”

“Such a fine, hard cock, want it – oh, Francis – in my mouth, between my thighs, in my arse, I – oh, _Christ!”_

“How horrid,” remarks Francis, with an attempt at being droll. James’s cheeks are red now, but goes on with the sluttish cant of his hips. An appeal for more, which Francis dispenses. Three quick slaps, and he bends down to kiss James’s neck, just behind his ear. “That how you want it?”

James moans, almost piteously: “Oh, yes, I want to be so good for him-”

“You are, you are, my darling boy-”

“Would do anything,” he says. That word again. _Anything._ “Anything to please him. For him to want me as I do him.”

“He does, my dear.”

James sighs. “Oh, truly?”

With another strike, Francis punishes him for ever doubting Francis’s desire.

“Thinks of nothing but it, when he sees you,” says Francis.

James is gasping, rutting against the bed like a dog mounting a bitch. A wonderful, filthy display, so at odds with the tender wonderment in his voice. “Does he?”

“He does, my lad. Lovely thing, you are. You’d drive any man to madness. Your poor captain. Sees your pretty mouth, wants you to suck his cock-”

“Oh, oh, God-” James’s moan chokes off at a particularly brutal slap.

“Fuck your greedy little arse until he’s spent, but you beg him for more-”

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck-”_

“Even wants,” he says, dropping down so he is bent over James’s prone form, and can whisper in his hear, “ _you_ to fuck _him._ ”

James actually spasms. “Tell me how, oh tell me _how,_ Francis!”

“On his hands and knees. Or on his back, so he can suck that clever tongue of yours. Wants to be full of you, wants you to take your fill hard as you can, leave him feeling you for days-”

“Oh, oh God-”

“Because you make him feel so _good,_ James. You-”

Francis breaks off as James gives a rough groan. His knuckles stand white against his fists, which are clenched into the sheets. He goes rigid. Jerks a few times, trembles for a moment. Then he sags against the bed.

“Did you just-”

James looks as surprised as Francis feels. “I,” he says, somewhat blearily, “suppose I did. Good God.”

After a moment, he levers himself up on one elbow. Both he and Francis survey the evidence of James’s climax.

“Made a bit of a mess,” he says.

“Hmm,” says Francis, who has had an idea. “Ought to be punished for that, too.”

“What do – oh, Lord.”

Francis has pressed James very gently back into the bed, and has brought his mouth down to James’s reddened cheeks. He mouths at one buttock, and then the other, relishing the low groan he gets the moment his tongue meets James’s heated flesh.

“Francis – good _Christ,_ Francis, you don’t mean to make me – after I just – oh, _fuck-”_

Francis has put a hand on either one of James’s cheeks, and spread them apart, so that he may get his tongue between them.

James sucks in a juddering breath. “Good God, Francis, I’ve only just spent and – yes, yes, like that, oh you wonderful, frustrating man-

Francis taunts him, circling James’s hole with the tip of his tongue, lightly flicking at his entrance, until James is thrashing and trembling. The limpness that usually accompanies his climaxes is left behind; Francis is determined to wind him up taut as a bowstring once more.

“Jesus God, Fran – ah!”

Francis has curled his fingers and is gently scratching at James’s tender backside. Now, he flattens his tongue against his lower lip, drawing it up and down with more pressure. The reaction he receives for such intimate ministration is divine; James actually whimpers.

“Oh, good fucking Christ, yes, yes-”

James’s pleasure has become ridiculously loud. Francis had already thought him a veritable _baintsí_ during their days on _Terror._ He had been astonished at their first tumbling in London, when the still-convalescing Fitzjames had clambered up onto his lap and demonstrated that what Francis had seen thereto had been the restrained cries of a man who positively wails his delight.

Quite a vociferous creature – and an eager one, too. James twists and turns, pushes himself closer to Francis’s mouth.

Francis will not leave him wanting, of course. He laves James’s hole with care, and when he is dripping with Francis’s spit, pushes the tip of his tongue inside James’s body. This is enough to earn him a cry and a series of expletives, but then he purses his lips around his tongue and _sucks._

It produces a rather filthy sound, which is promptly drowned out by a shriek that rends the very air.

“Oh, _fuck-”_

Francis goes on licking and sucking, James a ready feast and Francis’s appetite insatiable. He is still hard, but does not think of touching himself, not until he has taken care of James. James, apparently, has other ideas, for after a moment he begins to groan.

“Oh, God, Francis – Francis, I-”

Francis hums – a wordless question. When it is not immediately answered, he lifts his head, resting his chin upon James’s backside. “James?”

“It’s too good. Not enough,” says James. “Francis, please, I need – you know _damn_ well what I need, please-”

“Can you reach-” James’s arms are long, he should be able to open the bedside drawer and find the oil they keep for this purpose.

James manages to cast a disparaging look over his shoulder. “I can’t move, man. You’ve seen to that,” he chides Francis. A little too breathy to be true chastisement, but enough. “ _You_ attend to it.”

For leaving him – even though it is only the brief moment it takes Francis to retrieve the oil – Francis presses an apologetic kiss to the small of James’s back. Oil in one hand, he pats James’s hip with the other. A direction, which James takes unsteadily but eagerly – he gets his legs up under his body and braces himself on his palms and his knees.

Francis hisses in a breath at what he sees.

James’s prick hangs, hot and hard, between his legs.

“You’re…?” Francis asks this half-question with no small amount of wonder.

“Yes,” says James. “Didn’t think I could – haven’t been able to, like this, since I was a boy.”

“Miraculous,” says Francis. He kisses James’s back again.

“Of course you’re praise me for my cock, you old lech,” grumbles James. “I thought you had a better opinion of – oh!”

All complaints cease as Francis gently takes his prick in hand. Francis strokes him carefully, keen not to push him too far – he must be so over-sensitive already. “You know full well my good opinion of you extends further than _this_ ,” he returns, with a put-upon sort of coolness. “And I shall thank you to remember that there is much I like about you that is not between your legs.”

Francis means to make James smile with a show of his former poor temper; instead, James sighs deeply and profoundly.

“Truly?”

Francis resists the urge to toss a quip back – is James a pining girl, sighing for a lover to sing his raptures? He offers the much-needed assurance instead as he releases James’s cock in favour of oiling his fingers.

“Yes, sweetheart. Now will you not let me show you how well I like you?” he asks, as he taps at James’s entrance with the pad of his index finger.

James’s sigh turns into a purr the moment Francis pushes in. James is slick and open enough that he accepts two fingers readily; a third, after only a minute.

“Come on, then,” says James, beginning to push back against Francis’s hand, to fuck himself on Francis’s fingers. “Want that fat cock in me, stop teasing and get on-”

Francis brings his free hand down on James’s tender backside with a sharp slap. James gives a choked groan, and Francis can feel James’s body tense around his fingers.

“I had thought,” he says, leaning forward to growl in James’s ear, “that you realized that there will be punishment for your wicked tongue, boy.”

James throws a cocky grin Francis’s way. “Maybe I need to be fucked right through the mattress. Teach me who my better is.”

Francis spanks him again – James gives a giddy laugh. “Such filth,” he pretends to scold. “That what you need, hm?”

“Oh, _yes.”_

“Ask for it, then. Politely,” adds Francis. He’s unbuttoning his flies, pulling out his very enthusiastic cock. Doesn’t bother undressing further.

There had been a time when James would have sneered at that idea and tossed his hair. Such days are long gone, obviously:

“Please, Captain Crozier,” he says, affecting all the lowly desperation of a boy begging not to be birched, “please, sir. I am like to die without it.”

Francis leans forward, hides a grin against James’s hair. “Without _what,_ James?”

“Your prick, sir. Fuck me. Fuck me, _please-”_

Francis slips into James, slow as he can. Hears a ragged gasp, and stops.

“James?”

“Christ – don’t stop, you’ll kill me,” James retorts. He has the audacity to sound offended by Francis’s circumspection.

“As you will,” returns Francis, rather dryly. He sinks into James in one motion. “That better?”

“Oh. Oh, yes.”

Francis sets a slow pace at first – rolling his hips almost lazily, and finding James’s body indescribably warm and endlessly yielding.

“Good?” he asks, as he leaves a kiss between James’s shoulders.

James has dropped onto his forearms, arse in the air. “Hmm,” he says. The aimed-for cockiness is more than a little undermined by how breathy his tone is. “That the best you can do, captain?”

Francis smacks his arse, sharp as he can. Drives into him, hard, as he does it. James jolts and hisses; then hums with delight.

“The bloody cheek on you,” Francis grits out, when every rough snap of his hips is met with a little whimper. “Will _nothing_ teach you?”

James’s only reply is a plea for more.

Francis does a bit of maneuvering, gets himself on one knee, bracing himself on the other foot. The posture of a man genuflecting, he realizes. Of a man asking for a beloved’s hand in marriage.

Not quite what Francis is doing now – but he might as well be. This is his devotion. His adoration. He takes James’s prick in hand, strokes him as he angles himself just so to catch that secret place inside James’s body.

“Is it good?”

There is no teasing now. James merely nods, and for it, Francis bruises a clumsy kiss against his cheek.

“Oh, Francis, oh, _Francis-”_

Francis loves this. Loves that James allows this. Loves that he can make him feel this way. Loves _him._

Francis tells James this – it earns him a low cry. Francis is frigging James’s cock nearly desperately now, murmuring heated little snippets of praise.

James’s back arches; he is trembling. Francis gets his free arm around James’s chest, spreading his fingers over James’s breast to feel the wild thudding of his heart.

“There you are, James,” he mumbles, slurring his words, drunk on the nearness of his climax. “I’ve got you, I – oh, sweet, suffering Christ-”

Francis bears James’s weight almost entirely. James is near swooning and incoherent. He still has the wherewithal to gasp out a desperate command:

“Yes, yes, inside – come on, inside me, Francis-”

Francis kisses his neck. “You first, James.”

James is panting. The sound is almost pained. “Not – not sure if I can-”

“You can. Go on. For me, love.”

James groans, loud and long. “Francis-”

“Yes, like that. You’re so good for me, James, want you to feel as good as you are for me-”

He spurts all over Francis’s hand, a slightly more subdued affair than hardly his usual, showy spending. But he can hardly be blamed for this – it is, Francis thinks with pride, the poor man’s second climax in under an hour.

Francis lets him go and James collapses face-first onto the bed, bringing Francis with him. His cheek is mashed up against the pillow and he mewls into it as Francis claws his fingers into his reddened arse cheeks, driving himself into James hard and fast until he spends into James’s body.

James encourages him with a soft sigh; when after a moment of lying across James’s back Francis withdraws his softening cock in a rush of seed and oil, James sighs again.

Francis lies down next to James. James hasn’t moved, still lying prostrate like a man receiving holy orders. This stirs in Francis some emotion for which he has no name.

“Christ, I’m tired,” says James with a yawn. “Can hardly move.”

Francis draws James’s discarded dressing gown over the other man. “Sleep a while, then.”

Another yawn. James seems barely able to keep his eyes open. “Never used to sleep so much. Mr. Reid even once remarked upon it. He believed I never slept at all. Told him that I merely sleep twice as efficiently as most. Hard to believe I could ever contentedly subsist upon two hours. Follies of youth, I suppose.”

Francis concurs with a hum, and kisses James’s temple.

“Might drop off for a bit,” says James. “You don’t mind?”

“Certainly not. It’d give me time without your meddling.”

“Well,” says James, before promptly dozing off, “if this is the response with which I am met for it, you can expect me to meddle far more.”

*****

That afternoon, Francis places the now-calibrated dip circle above the fireplace, a needless reminder of why he has vowed to remain at home.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't write post-canon and not add JCR. I love JCR. That foxy lad. Also, when will I write proper Fitzrossier? Soon, my friends. Soon.


End file.
